


Homecoming

by Chemical_Defect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Colleague, Emotions, Gen, Hurt, M/M, Pining, Romance, Sherlock is the bigger idiot, TWO IDIOTS, friends - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 14:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14750249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical_Defect/pseuds/Chemical_Defect
Summary: John Watson comes back home to Sherlock.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fandoms_Unite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_Unite/gifts).



> Thank you for the suggestion, Fandoms_Unite and the suggestion for the title!

_Work is the best antidote to sorrow_ , he’d told Mrs Hudson aeons ago.

He was grieving – not Mary, although in a sense he was. He was mourning the apparent loss of his – John.

Since she passed, John had erected an impregnable wall of distance, anger and resentment between them. Sherlock had tried to go through it but John had made his position crystal clear. Sherlock was unwanted, banished from his life.

He was not exceedingly surprised that John beat him up in Smith’s hospital – if anything, he was more surprised that John had agreed to tag along and not outright deny him.

It was, however, true that he might not have been thinking clearly, high as he was at the time.

_All part of a larger plan, but the taking of drugs at such dosages would inevitably result in unfortunate miscalculations and consequences._

 

He’d hoped to find his best friend back in his life after he’d sheltered him in his arms while John had let go of some of his pain. Apparently however, John had been so shell-shocked at witnessing first-hand Sherlock’s humanity and, despite his best efforts at pretending he had none his physical needs, that he had bolted, running back to his house in the suburbs – evidently to drink himself to oblivion as he’d checked with Mrs Hudson that she’d be available to mind Rosie ‘for a bit’.

There never were any texts from John but three months after Mary’s demise, he was invariably there when Sherlock arrived at a crime scene Greg had called him to.

 

‘Tell your friend -’

‘Colleague,’ John had corrected with a forceful look as Wilson, a newly promoted Detective, recently arrived from Swansea judging by the sole of her shoes and the evidence of clay at the end of them, had started to tell John that what Sherlock did was not appropriate in her book. She seemed to take note of John’s correction, but neither she nor John had caught the look of distraught, crushed hope that Sherlock was sure had come across his face, too powerful for even him to hide.

He had tuned out the rest of the conversation, silently retreating to the far end of the room they were in. Donovan’s judging look had not helped him feel any better about any of it and John’s polite distance coupled with the constant lack of eye contact – not to mention casual touches – had been eating away at his very core from the moment he’d first seen John after that hug.

 

Sherlock was grieving, mourning the complete absence of the man who had left a bottomless hole in his life and in his heart by diving head first into the Work, distracting himself – or at least trying to as it was not conducive to the most efficient results – from the feeling of utter emptiness that John’s severing their friendship had left him in.

Reviewing the information he’d got on the case of a certain Simon Lacoste – not gentry but definitely upper middle class if only judging by the state of his finances and somewhat privileged upbringing which a quick check determined – Sherlock pondered how a man of such a recluse and paranoid disposition could have fallen into the clutches of a woman twenty years his junior. The pair had formed a close relationship which had rapidly evolved into a romantic one, Simon had asked the young woman in marriage resulting, a few days after they had exchanged vows, Cynthia had disappeared and Simon had received a letter demanding 20 million pounds in exchange for her to be returned to him. Puzzling.

He took his phone to do additional research on this Cynthia Lacoste née Tyeler and her upbringing, known enemies, state of finances, family ties… but nothing came out of it.

The notification of a text message pushed up his research to the background. At this hour of the night, it probably was Lestrade asking for help on a crime scene. He sighed in defeat – to solve Simon’s case he would apparently be needing a break that even though unknowingly, the Met was providing. He pushed himself off the floor where he was working, donned his coat and scarf and went down the stairs.

 

As he opened the front door he was met with John’s tired and somewhat hopeful face. He was wearing his coat, now too large for him as he’d lost two stones since the last time Sherlock had seen him in it, carrying Rosie who was sleeping in his arms, the key Sherlock had never asked John return in his hand. And luggage on the pavement.

Sherlock’s brain came to a halt upon taking all of this in.

Refusing to yield to sentiment and knowing John did not even consider him as more than a mere _colleague_ even though he’d asked Sherlock to be his best man at his wedding and godfather to his child, the consulting detective, putting his coat collar up out of sheer force of habit, decided to keep his words on the platitudes they’d been exchanging as colleagues.

 

‘The crime scene is close by, I imagine. Get those bags inside, Doctor Watson while I get Mrs Hudson to watch over your child. I will let her know that you’re planning on taking a train early to your sister’s tomorrow,’ he said in the most detached manner he could while a look of shock (hurt?) and surprise spread on John’s face. ‘Your old room is still available should you get back from the crime scene before sunrise,’ he added while the oddest look painted itself on John’s features.

‘Sherlock...’ John started, a pleading tone to his voice.

‘Doctor Watson?’ he inquired, keeping his tone as neutral as possible, his eyebrow raising as John extended his arm then thought better of it and let it drop back at his side.

‘Just – can we get in, please? It’s cold outside.’

‘I imagine that you mean to say that your child will get cold if you stay too long on the pavement. Very well. Go upstairs and make her comfortable.’

‘Sherlock...’

‘I’ll put your bags at the bottom of the stairs. It will be more practical for the taxi you intend to take tomorrow.’

John opened his mouth, sighed and shook his head, not saying a word.

‘Thank you,’ he eventually replied, letting himself in as he walked up the seventeen stairs that led to their former flat.

‘It’s not a problem. Please be swift: my presence is required on a crime scene and I expect yours is as well.’

John made no answer and continued his ascension.

Sherlock checked his mobile phone as John set Rosie in the cot he’d purchased when he was on babysitting duties and still kept in John’s room.

 

Case. Open the door, please. -JW

Come upstairs, please. I need help. -JW

 

The text message he had received and not bothered reading had not come from Lestrade as he had assumed. John required assistance and Sherlock was not about to desert him even if John clearly did not think as much of him as he used to three months ago.

He rushed up the stairs to find John waiting by the kettle, two steaming tea cups on the table, a hesitant smile on his face.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Can we sit?’

‘Of course, Jo- Doctor Watson. How can I help?’

‘John.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Stop calling me Doctor Watson, please, Sherlock. Please call me John again.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

‘Is all this not obvious enough to you?’

‘Doctor – John, I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.’

‘Then let me list the various clues that the most observant man I know cannot have missed. But seems to have dismissed entirely,’ John added, pondering on the reason why. Sherlock did not dismiss clues, especially if they had anything to do with him. He went to the sitting room, placed a cup of tea in Sherlock’s hands and sat in his own chair with his own, old RAMC mug, counting the clues on his fingers as he enunciated them clearly. ‘One: I am here, in your flat, in the middle of the night. It is almost midnight, Sherlock,’ he countered before Sherlock could actually utter some sort of nonsense of the sun setting down at 10pm and the average night at this time of year being of 9 to 10 hours. ‘Two: I have made sure that Rosie be with me to make it more obvious. Three: I have packed as much as I could take. You’ve clearly seen the luggage I have come with. Four: Did you by any chance miss the fact that I was holding the key to the flat when you opened the door?’  


Sherlock had sat in his armchair, listening as John listed these clues – he had not missed any of them. They simply did not make sense to him. It was evident however that the conclusion he had come to – John would not have broke the situation into small elements for him to focus on otherwise. Sat across from him, the doctor held his cup of tea, watching him in silence.

‘Should I wait for you to connect the dots?’

Sherlock made no response and stayed silent for five more minutes, his face a mask of confusion. John steeled himself as he opened his mouth.

‘Sherlock, are you listening?’

‘Yes,’ came Sherlock’s croaky voice.

‘Sherlock will you let me come back here?’

‘Sherlock?’

‘Please, not that again. Sherlock.’

‘Explain, please?’

‘I want to come back living with you.’

‘It makes sense on a professional level.’

‘Jesus, Sherlock...’ John took a large breath in, visibly keeping his nerves in check. Sherlock must be getting slow. _Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all._

‘Sherlock I know I’ve not treated you -’

‘You’re entitled.’

‘Can you stop interrupting me and dismissing what I say? This is har- difficult enough.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I want to live with you. As we used to. I want to mend our friendship. I want to – I may want to – That’s not important now because there are plenty of things we need to fix, I need to fix, but later I think I want to er, explore another side of our relationship.’ His tone is open, warm, hopeful.

Sherlock stayed silent once more, processing the information.

‘Sherlock, say something, please.’

‘Yes.’

 

 

 


End file.
